


angels choking on their halos

by aliciaxadrienne



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Explicit Language, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Self-Harm, So much death, Violence, a very christmasy fic (sarcasm), not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 16:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2818028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliciaxadrienne/pseuds/aliciaxadrienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fame and notoriety mean nothing when the dead are coming back to life.<br/>Or; the zombie apocalypse happens at the worst possible time and things go haywire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	angels choking on their halos

**Author's Note:**

> this little thing took me a bit less than a week to write and essentially turned my emotions into mush. title from "just one yesterday" by fob.  
> thank you bunches to my beta [Sam](http://scheduled-spontaneity.tumblr.com/%20) for forgoing a few hours of sleep last night to edit this for me, even though she's not in the 5sos fandom (I WILL CONVERT YOU SAMANTHA!!!!)
> 
> and also thank you [Gabi](http://daddirwin.tumblr.com) for inspiring me to get back to writing, because I honestly love this fic and I'm so happy I wrote it, love you darlin <3

Ashton can’t remember what life was like before people started dying. He should be able to, obviously, he was freshly twenty-one when Calum tried ripping his jugular out. But ironically enough, it seems like memories from before that night are meaningless, so he’s decided to let go of them, really, as a coping mechanism and also because he can’t bear to remember how good they all had it. 

It had almost been funny, because they were obviously very touchy feely as a band, and on more than one occasion before an interview Calum would start giving him hickeys just to fuck with the interviewers, or if Ashton complained about not getting any action for a while, Calum was always sort of there, up for anything. So nothing had been immediately alarming to Ashton in his half-awake state when Calum woke up, groaned, and locked onto Ashton’s neck with his beady little eyes. He only got scared when Calum got close enough for Ashton to be well aware that his best friend’s appearance had decayed suddenly over night.

Michael had saved his ass, of course, barreling into the hotel room with a weapon that looked suspiciously like a gun- where the fuck did that come from - and, with hands shaking, he shoots Calum in the back of the head, twice, remembering from a movie he watched a couple years ago, Zombieland, that double-tapping is very important when killing an infected.

More than anything else, including the blood on his down comforter and the sudden weight on his lower legs from Calum’s body collapsing into a heap, Ashton still remembers the lack of hesitation, the rigid body language, the breath Michael had let out all in one go after shooting Calum in the back of the head. 

“Were you getting jealous, or something?” Ashton quirks, albeit it’s half-hearted and way too quiet, and there isn’t even a hint of acknowledgement in Mike’s eyes, just a strictness that seems so out of place on someone who four hours prior had been eating gummy worms with his dick hanging out of his boxers. 

They never discuss how easy it was, Michael’s first kill, and how Ashton moped around for months, sourly forcing his partner-in-crime to pick up the slack. It’s one of those things they both try to avoid, but for different reasons. Michael doesn’t have a justification for his actions that would satisfy someone as strangely justice-orientated as Ashton, and Ashton would rather pretend to have memory loss than discuss the death of his CalPal.

In a funny sort of way, Ashton ended up getting revenge, even if he didn’t really want it. 

The first thing they do after cleaning up (Ashton insists upon moving Calum’s body to the bathroom, propping his best friend up in a seated position in the bathtub. He cries when he realizes how lifeless and ragdoll-like his favorite idiot is, how cold and slick with blood both of them are. Michael stands by the doorway, motionless, with his arms crossed) is look for Luke. Since the power’s been off for a few hours, Michael’s keycard for their hotel room is essentially useless and they both walk right in. 

“He’s not here,” Ashton whines, and the pain in his left shoulder from the monster grip Calum got on him for the briefest of moments still hurts like a third degree burn. 

In response, Michael only growls, throwing open the closet door, half-expecting to find Luke huddled in the corner crying for Liz. When he’s not there, or behind the shower curtain, or under the bed, or barricaded behind his suitcase with the leftover gummy worms and his laptop, Michael starts to panic, just a little. He shoves his gun at Ashton’s chest, nearly knocking the boy over, and nods, temporarily mute. 

Two minutes of agonized searching later, they’re both in the deserted hallway of the hotel, Ashton holding the gun like it’s about to come alive, and Michael stoically speed-walking towards the elevator. He shouldn’t be surprised when it’s out of order, but honestly he can’t be blamed for the annoyed hiss he lets out between his clenched teeth. Ashton chooses not to comment on how animalistic Michael’s acting. He should have known based on all those first person shooters that out of the four of them, Mikey would be the most likely to take control.

Then Ashton remembers Calum is dead and Luke is either rotting as well, or far away. As a band, they’ve never been separated like this before. 

At the end of the hall, there’s a small crowd of people, and what looks like a dead body splayed spread eagle on the carpet, staining the former creamy vanilla color a dark crimson. Ashton feels bile raise in his throat.

“Fuckin’ hell,” He murmurs at the same exact time that Michael angrily grunts, kicking down a nearby door to the maintenance backways, and suddenly their hands are intertwined and they’re both running down the stairs.

By the time they reach the hotel lobby, Michael’s clearly lost some of his momentum but doesn’t seem ready to admit it. Ashton’s still got the gun that came into his possession questionably, slung into the loop on his jeans the way he saw actors in a Old Western do it when his mum used to leave the television on over night. They’re both breathing a little heavily as they let their eyes scour the new environment for any possible supplies or allies. It’s pretty barren, people-wise, besides a few bodies on the ground and a staked infected hanging onto the fleur-de-lis wallpaper by the machete through it’s heart, moaning.

Ashton sees a blonde quiff over by the vending machines and his knees buckle. Michael looks like he’s about to fall over as his eyes lock onto a load of food in the opposite directions. “Go to Luke,” Michael orders, authoritative and way too certain, “I’m going to go grab as much of that as I can before another wave comes through.” Ashton doesn’t ask how he knows that there will be another group, maybe it’s just a small outbreak, inconsequential. 

Maybe it’s a dream, he considers as his hand moves to grip the gun at his waist, making sure it’s still there. Then he remembers what Michael has asked him to do, and Ashton jogs over to Luke, who seems awfully nonchalant for someone in the middle of a possible apocalypse. Maybe we were wrong, Luke isn’t a mess. 

As he gets closer, Ashton realizes something is very, very wrong. Luke is calm, but his cheeks are tear-stained, and he’s got a death grip on his left arm, which is rapidly losing blood. The blonde’s eyes are empty as they meet Ashton’s, but he smiles in a chagrined way anyways, always the epitome of self-deprecating and endearing behavior. 

“Hey, Ash,” He coughs, and fuck, Ashton’s got a wicked migraine. What the fuck is going on, really. 

“Hey, Lukey, do you think you could move your arm for me?” Ashton feels his big brother impulses kick in, gently holding onto Luke’s right hand as his arms separate. The sleeves of the long-sleeved henley Luke slept in have already been hastily pushed up, and the bite mark is fully exposed. The bile comes back up, and one hand drifts back behind Ashton to balance his shaky ankles. No, no. This is definitely not what he dreams about, two of his closest friends dying and the third becoming close to heartless. But reality could never be this cruel to him, he’s certain. 

For a couple seconds, he dumbly stares at the laceration, unbelieving. Luke clears his throat, and that’s all it takes for tears to spring to Ashton’s eyes. This just isn’t right. With shaking hands, Ashton presses down on the bite and refuses to look at Luke’s face, because he knows his own devastation will be mirrored there. Fuck. 

Ashton angrily rips some fabric of the curtain behind Luke and wraps it around the afflicted arm like a makeshift tourniquet. He doesn’t think long-term, just tries to get Luke up, but the blonde grunts and shakes his head. “This is it for me.” The finality in his voice is too much. 

“Shut the fuck up, don’t be stubborn, I’m getting you out of here,” Ashton whispers, agitated with the complete lack of survival instinct Luke is displaying. They just celebrated Ashton’s twenty first birthday last night. Luke isn’t even nineteen yet. He’s not dying today. Calum is already gone. Calum is gone. 

Still holding onto Luke, Ashton swivels his head around to look for anyone, really, but especially Michael. The lobby is still cleared out, and now Michael is absent too, probably getting greedy. 

This is so fucked up. Luke’s breathing is getting more labored and he starts wildly thrashing, muscle spasms wracking his frame. Ashton is in over his head, there is so much adrenaline running through his veins. There isn’t really anything he can do, and they both know that.

Until Luke notices the gun that’s now directly next to Ashton’s lap. 

“Hey, hey, hey, i know what you can do,” the blonde says, with a false sense of cheeriness. Ashton shakes his head, certain that he can’t kill anyone, especially not Luke. It’d be like asking him to shoot Harry. All he wants to do is play some goddamn drums for a screaming crowd. It’s the day after his birthday, for Christ’s sake. He can officially drink in the States. They should all be celebrating right now.

“I’m not fucking shooting you, Luke.”

“You don’t have a choice!” The vocalization is so adamant that Ashton starts to believe that his only option is to kill one of his best friends. 

God, the universe is really fucking with him today. 

He toys with the trigger on the gun, honestly not even all that familiar with how the weapon works. There’s never been a reason for him to be, and Ashton hadn’t been expecting a life-or-death experience anytime soon. Luke is starting to get impatient, and they lock eyes for the first time in a few minutes. Ashton pushes the gun away from both of them, to the edge of the vending machine a few yards away. 

“Please,” Luke begs, brokenly, and it’s the worst thing Ashton has ever heard. He may be twenty one, but he’s not man enough to handle this, any of it. “You know I’ll turn into one of those, and I’ll try to kill you, or Michael, or Calum!” He sounds close to hysterics and Ashton is so deep in thought he doesn’t offer any comfort, or correct Luke. There’s no reason to put him in even more of a panic when he’s about to die, one way or another. 

Ashton makes a decision. And he’ll probably regret it a thousand different ways, for as long as he lives. But he values compassion over his own innocence.

He stands up on shaky legs, like a fragile newborn deer, after gently pressing his lips to Luke’s forehead. Luke hiccups, but smiles a little. 

The gun is a dead weight in his hands, heavy with potential for so much destruction that Ashton doesn’t want any part in. 

“You know I love you, bro,” He says, reminding himself why he’s doing this. Luke nods, looking semi-content. Ashton wishes they were all back in his room, watching porn or a bad movie or playing Guitar Hero or literally doing anything else. 

He holds the gun the way he saw Michael do it before shooting Calum. 

Quietly, Ashton asks Luke if he’s ever considered what his last words would be. The world is in slow-motion, but Ashton can hear some of the undead outside, and they’re getting closer. 

“Just tell Mikey what he already knows.. about us, i mean.”

Luke holds his breath.

Ashton tightens his grip on the gun, before allowing himself to focus it on Luke’s forehead, a perfect killshot. He pulls the trigger.

Luke stops breathing.

Everything is silent as Ashton embraces the dead body of the boy responsible for the band that made his life worth living.

**********************************  
Michael races back into the lobby, placing a nearby wood plank between the door handles to keep back a herd that he has apparently attracted during his adventures. There’s blood all over his leather jacket, effectively ruining the material. Based on the manly gait in his walk, it’s not his own, so Ashton goes back to cradling Luke’s head in his lap. He doesn’t know how long he’s been festering in a puddle of blood, could be minutes or hours, time has stopped meaning anything and Ashton figures that soon enough, he won’t even know what day it is, so why does it matter if he doesn’t know the exact time?

He says this all out loud, tone even enough, even though his entire body is shaking, while Michael stands over him, crowbar in hand. For a long moment, they both just stare at each other. Then Michael’s eyes wander down to the body Ashton’s holding, and it’s like he’s just now realizing what happened while he was gone.

“What the fuck did you do?” Michael asks, rhetorically, in the most terrifyingly calm tone. They both already know. It’s obvious because Ashton still hasn’t let go of the gun, and he’s covered in Luke’s blood. It’s even worse than how he woke up this morning, and he opens his mouth to offer an explanation, but Michael just mumbles something about not having enough time, and pulls Ashton up by the hair, dragging him behind the reception desk and grabbing another gun from underneath the counter. This time, he keeps it to himself and leaves Ashton with nothing. 

The remnants of the first crime he’s ever committed, including the murder weapon, have been left behind. Luke’s been left behind. To rot. But at least that’s better than the alternative.

Just as they’re going back up the stairs, the glass doors collapse in on themselves from the weight of the herd, and Ashton starts tripping all over himself out of nervousness and also because his shoes are caked in semi-wet blood from Luke and dried blood from Calum. There’s just too much of it, he panics, and contemplates just giving himself up to save Michael.

“If you keep fucking up every little thing I ask you to do, I’m going to leave you behind!” Michael hisses when they are safe for a moment at the top of the stairs, all venom with no actual bite, but it hurts all the same. 

“Maybe that’s exactly what you should do.” Ashton says softly. Michael gives him a hard look and shakes his head.

“I won’t let anyone else die today. Even if you’re really pissing me off with your hypocritical bullshit.”

Everything is silent. God, he’s been noticing that a lot today. It’s not even entirely true, because if Ashton really focuses, he can hear the groans of the undead that are constantly a few meters behind the pair, and also, his heartbeat. His heartbeat is thumping really, really loud. The fact that he’s always had heart problems only makes it worse. They can’t be on the run for the rest of their lives, it’ll kill him. Plus, Michael and Ashton haven’t got the strongest of relationships out of all the different combinations within the band. Sure they’ve always gotten along swell, but there have been instances where murder seemed like a feasible solution to a petty argument over who left the milk out.

That was hyperbole, Ashton reminds himself, because in a world where he could technically just kill Michael with no consequences, he doesn’t want his head to get any awful ideas. They are still best friends, even if they’ve technically killed each other’s bedmates. The fact that they didn’t have any other choice is sort of irrelevant at this point. 

**********************************  
Religion has never played a huge part in Ashton’s life, but he has to acknowledge that by some miracle, they both escape without a scratch (more hyperbole, there’s a bruise on his knee from tripping up the hardwood stairs and Michael accidently ran the blade of a steak knife he picked up from a body across his palm) and only a few passive-aggressive remarks shouted between them. 

“In here,” Michael ducks under the doorframe of a small cottage they, aka Ashton, located while they were standing on the hotel’s rooftop. It’s a comfortable distance away from any of the zombie crowds they’ve run into, and it has a high stone fence surrounding the property. There’s also a ton of barbed wire and poison ivy everywhere, which seems unnatural for Snow White’s cottage, but they’re both so surprised that the convenience is accepted without digging any deeper. There’s no point, they have to take what they can get. Everything they own is still back at the hotel, probably scavenged or ruined. 

Taking a few minutes to get his bearings, Ashton locks himself in the bathroom and starts to rejoice when he discovers that the cottage still has running water. It’s probably hooked up to it’s own system, which is a blessing in itself. He washes his hands of the blood that’s stained his hands, and is about to take his clothes off to take a shower when Michael knocks on the door. 

For one second, Ashton considers staying silent, and then he realizes how petulant that would be, ignoring his only real chance at companionship now.

“Yes, honey?” He calls, as a joke. Michael is the least domestic person Ashton has ever encountered, and that’s saying something, because Calum used to make jokes about how if the woman he ended up with didn’t know how to cook, he’d kick the bitch out and call up Ashton every single morning to make him breakfast. 

Calum.

There’s no reply so Ashton decides to just get in the shower. As soon as he gets comfortable, the door opens. What a goddamn surprise that Michael can’t respect privacy while the only guy he has left washes blood off his body and mourns the loss of his best-friend-turned-boyfriend and the closest thing to a little brother he’s got, besides Harry. 

Instead of listening to what Michael is saying, Ashton thinks about the last time he was with Harry, which was nearly a week ago already. Damn their tour schedule. He might never see his brother again because the flight to the US for the North American tour dates had demanded they land in New York before it was really necessary. 

Not that any of them had complained.

Michael is still babbling. “..And i know you really don’t want to talk about anything, so we can stay civil for a while, I guess, but I can’t forgive you for what you did, it wasn’t fair..”

“What the fuck did you expect me to do?!” Ashton spits, running a hand through his wet hair, watching the crimson go down the drain. It’s all he really had left of Calum and Luke, and however morbid it may seem, he considers not washing the shirt that Luke had clung onto in his last moments.

“Jesus Christ, I don’t know, wait for me to come back, maybe?”

“You killed Calum without even blinking.”

“That is so not the same thing, Ashton! He was going to kill you! It wasn’t Calum anymore, it was a fucking zombie! Luke was still alive, he could have held on for a few more minutes, and I could have saved him!” Ashton can hear Michael’s pacing footsteps, and it’s more irritating than it should be. 

“He begged me to just end it, Mikey. I couldn’t watch him suffer for any longer. You know how gets when he’s got a goddamn hangnail? Well this was worse times infinity. There was no getting better.” 

More silence. 

Ashton turns the water off. There’s no towels in his immediate vicinity, but it doesn’t really matter because when he steps out of the tub Michael is looking at his bare feet. Ashton gathers up the clothes he had neatly folded and puts the shirt back on, not bothering with anything else because it’s long enough to cover the important bits, and twelve hours ago they were all half-naked in a hotel room eating ridiculous amounts of candy to fight off inevitable hangovers, so who cares about modesty when they could literally die at any given moment?

He wraps an arm around Mikey’s shoulder and lets out a heavy sigh. 

“I know you didn’t get to say goodbye,” Ashton pauses when Michael sniffles, “but Luke’s last words were about you, not his mother, or Cal, or even me.” 

“He told me to tell you what you already know. What we already all know.. which is he loves you. Not in that casual way we always throw around. Compared to Calum and I, you two were practically married.” 

They stand like that for a while, arms wrapped around each other, Michael reaching up every few minutes to tug at the ends of his hair, with an unspoken truce.

“He was going to kill you,” Mikey repeats, “He was going to kill you and all that mattered in that moment was making sure you were safe. You saw his eyes. It didn’t look like him anymore, wasn’t him, right?”

Ashton exhales. He does remember what Calum looked like immediately before he, or his body, whatever, died. And while he did look.. different.. Ashton had seen something in his eyes. Almost like Calum was still in there, trying to fight for his life. 

But Ashton has always been the protective type, so he lets Michael believe what will help him sleep better at night. Everything is already so fucked up, they don’t need to both be suffering from a guilty conscience. 

“It wasn’t him.”

Michael falls to the ground anyways.

When he wakes up a few hours later, exhausted and head pounding, he’s comforted by a disdainful Ashton who claims that he’s already started working on strengthening the defenses around their new shelter. 

**********************************  
The cabin is nice enough, considering the other possibilities for a living situation, which are pretty much limited to the streets, or Hell. Once Ashton realizes that there really isn’t anywhere else to go, he stops looking for flaws, to keep his sanity intact.

While the strategy works perfectly for a building, it doesn’t work on another living, breathing person who can talk back when Ashton repeats “Don’t let it bother you,” over and over, like a mantra. And fuck, does Michael do exactly that. They’ve only been in the cabin for maybe forty eight hours and he’s already made enough jokes about ‘kicking someone off the island’ or ‘sending someone into the herds’ that every time Michael goes to speak, Ashton tenses up. 

For a while, it sort of works for them. They’ve established roles. Michael is responsible for keeping the cottage, cabin, house, whatever warm and livable. Ashton is responsible for fixing what Michael does wrong and actually making the place warm and livable. Also, he cooks.

They go scavenging every few days, avoiding nighttimes and early morning, because that’s when the density of the herds are the thickest. Scavenging is fun, Ashton decides, until he realizes that they’re essentially breaking into abandoned homes, business offices, stores, anything and stealing what belonged to someone else, might still belong to someone who will come back to find all their stuff gone. 

Michael doesn’t care. He’s all black and white marble granite, impermeable and cold, while Ashton is grey molding putty, feeling too many things at once, pliable but fragile.

The sudden epiphany comes approximately twelve sleeps after they’ve left the hotel. It’s probably around noontime, and Ashton is about to lace up the hunting boots that are two sizes too big. Stolen equipment, like almost everything in their possession. Nothing is truly his anymore. He’s only got Michael, but the boy’s built up so many walls in the past two weeks that they’ve barely spoken a word to each other that wasn’t mandatory. 

It’s sort of like they’re playing tug-of-war, Ashton thinks, except they’re standing as far away from each other as possible, and the rope is taut, pulled to extremities, and neither of them are willing to give up. 

The fight is fair, at least for now, but they’re both getting burned. It’s only a matter of time before the imaginary rope snaps.

After a few minutes of staring at the ground, Ashton is broken out of his reverie by the door slamming. It’s obviously Michael, no one else is around for miles, and the undead couldn’t unlock a door that’s been fortified several times over, but for a brief second Ashton wonders if maybe it’s a scavenger, finally coming to give him a piece of his own medicine. 

Footsteps get louder, before fading as they move past where Ashton is seated in the kitchen, and his muscles untense.

There’s a little part of him that wishes all of it would just end already; Ashton is sick and tired of fighting for his life and then sitting around with a bad case of literal cabin fever all day. But he’s pretty much sworn off going exploring with Mikey, so that doesn’t leave him with any other choice but to play housewife. Out of the myriad of possible futures Ashton had seen himself having when he was younger and more carefree, this had never even crossed his mind. Not the apocalypse part, but the part with Michael, and the constant accompanying paranoia that leaves him feeling conflicted over every single choice. 

He misses Calum. 

He misses Luke.

He misses his family.

Sometimes, on the rare occasions he decides to go more than a stone’s throw away from the outer perimeter of the property, when he comes across a straggler zombie, Ashton makes up a life story for it, spinning funny anecdotes and personality traits and favorite television shows out of thin air. It keeps him busy for a few minutes, and every precious second spent not thinking about the way Luke pleaded for his own death, or the feeling of Calum’s blood on his skin, or Michael’s rapid personality change, or where Harry and Lauren could possibly be, is a second Ashton is okay with surviving. Every step he takes is a reminder of the travesty of a world he’s now living in. 

The one time Michael gives Ashton an opportunity to be “more useful,” as he puts it, is the day Ashton sees what he believes Luke would have looked like if they had in fact waited for Mikey to come back to the dreaded lobby.

He’d been down by a cute little brook, kicking rocks and occasionally skipping them across the water, when he heard a groan from behind him. Ashton was wearing a little bit of camouflage, just some shorts with fresh blood smeared all over them (a recommendation he remembered hearing about back when it was just the crazies talking about an apocalypse situation,) so he was caught off guard by the fact that he had been noticed to begin with, but the striking resemblance to Luke Hemmings nearly caused him to trip backwards into the shallow water.

This had to have been fate. Ashton had only had a couple run-ins with the undead at that point, but none of them had appeared as life-like as this one, and even with all the blood caked on and the 20 or so meters distance, the blonde quiff was remarkably similar to Luke’s favorite style. He was even wearing a plaid shirt that, if Ashton squinted a little, looked eerily like the button down that Luke had left hanging on a chair before he retired to his hotel room with Mikey after playing enough rounds of Mario Kart that Ashton, in his drunken state, couldn’t remember a time they hadn’t been fucking each other over with banana peels and childish taunts.

For a moment or two Ashton is thoroughly convinced Luke somehow survived the blood loss and prompt bullet to the forehead. Not survived it as himself, he isn’t that stupid even when he’s been taken over by grief. Zombie Luke is better than no Luke, though, and while he’s hidden under the veil of hopefulness, Ashton really, really wants to ask Mike if he was serious about getting a guard dog.

He doesn’t have time to think about it, because Zombie Luke has started advancing towards him now, and he hasn’t got much of a weapon on him, just a knife meant to make cutting down berries and such easier, and while Ashton wouldn’t really mind being bitten by his best friend, Mike would kill him. Probably out of a mixture of jealousy and anger, but also out of necessity, and for some reason Ashton is convinced there would be a part of Michael who would be relieved to be rid of the ghosts he can’t forget about because of the “giant rain cloud of pure depression” constantly following him around.

Zombie Luke is a few inches away from Ashton’s face when the bullet pierces. The smell is god-awful and the sense of deja vu is overwhelming enough that Calum’s face flashes before him. He sees the blood on his hands, feels the aura of relaxation from a good night’s rest dissipate, hears Mike’s footsteps following him around as he hastily tries to give his lover a proper goodbye. Ashton’s knees start shaking. 

“You were gone too fuckin’ long to just be picking berries or whatever the hell bullshit excuse you fed me.” Michael chides gruffly, and the difference between him that morning and now is shockingly obvious. There isn’t a hint of gentleness, or jest, just coldness.

Obviously they haven’t been able to shave, but it’s not just the facial hair that makes Mike look like a completely different guy. He’s always been very self-assured, but even the way he stands over Ashton, eyes glimmering with disappointment, is reminiscent of someone twice their age, weathered down by time and suffering. 

“I wasn’t.. There was.. H-He looked just like..”

“Luke is dead,” Michael reminds him, as he drags the dead body into the brook, a look of concentration on his face. There isn’t nearly enough water to propel it anywhere, so Zombie Luke stays directly in Ashton’s field of vision. “He’s been dead for weeks. So has Calum. They’re gone, and it is just us.” He begins stalking away from the scene, steps short and heavy, clearly having more important things to do, more innocent people to steal from.

This is a losing battle that neither of them have energy for, but the nightmares have been plaguing Ashton since the very first night, and he’s irritated and more than a little put off by how unaffected Michael is, sick of the indifference.

“Looked just like Luke,” Ashton hasn’t said his name out loud since he relayed the boy’s last words and Michael broke down. It feels wrong, to say it like that, quietly and afraid of what reaction it will get, “You still remember who he is, beyond just how he died? Yeah, his last words were that he loves you, but he was so much more than that, we both know, he was your best friend, and he meant more, didn’t he?” Michael is looking at the ground, but the shame in his eyes is undeniable. “Remember how he practically worshipped you, even when you refused to kiss him in public because you were scared how our fuckin’ fans would react? Fuck, he treated you like you were some gift from God, even though you were, and still are, just some scared little bitch who can’t recognize his own-”

The punch comes quickly, and Ashton hadn’t been expecting a fight today when he left the cabin, so it hurts more than it should. The force causes him to fall back against a big oak tree. He doesn’t even consider hitting back. There’s no point. 

Without another word, Michael turns around and walks the way he came.

By the time Ashton gets back to the cabin, Michael has already locked himself in the bathroom. He can’t say he’s really surprised, because lately Michael has always been running away from important conversations, or any at all.

It’s only just starting to get dark out, but it’s been a long ass day, and Ashton has been running low on energy lately anyways, so he goes into the bedroom, shuts the door, and promptly passes out on the bed, boots on and all.

**********************************  
Ashton wakes up with an aching head and what feels like a half-eaten gummy worm on his forehead. There’s also a ton of drool on his pillow, which can’t be his, because he hasn’t drooled since he was a toddler. 

Still, he lets out a contented sigh, because he’s officially twenty one, which means that later tonight, he and the boys will go out drinking at some shady NYC club, and his ID will be the only legitimate one. The thought makes him want to puff his chest out in pride, like one of those cute birds that Calum had shown him a video of last night after Michael and Luke left. Admittedly they were both a little drunk and ultimately too out of it to have sex. Plus Calum couldn’t stop giggling over the fuckin’ bird long enough to get in the goddamn mood, so he had promised Ashton birthday sex in the morning.

When he hears a moan, Ashton rolls over onto his hide with a smirk on his face, about to teasingly ask if Calum was in the mood now.  
Calum’s eyes meet his, and the color instantly drains out of Ashton’s face, because Cal looks like he’s suffering from hypothermia. His skin is grey, and his lips are cracked. He must be ill from all that alcohol, Ashton thinks, sitting up, about to open his mouth to apologize for not stopping Calum from drinking as much as he did.

Calum’s hand lands on his shoulder, tightening harshly, and Ashton can feel the texture of his skin, paperlike and cold to the touch, through the stolen t-shirt belonging to Cal he slept in. It’s a Nirvana shirt that he had thrown on the floor while they were kissing, a couple minutes before they had both agreed that there was no way they had enough energy to do much of anything. 

Calum’s head has a bullet through it and he’s a dead weight on top of Ashton’s body before he can find his voice and ask what the fuck is going on.

He wakes up screaming, and with someone’s arms around him. Ashton bites down on the arm of the intruder, reaches for the gun under his pillow, and is at the other side of the room within ten seconds.

“Okay, what the fuck man?!” Michael complains loudly, lurching forward, holding his arm at an angle that forces Ashton to see the red mark he’s left. “You’re like a piranha, Jesus Christ! And that’s a real shit defense mechanism, FYI.”

“What are you doing in here?” Ashton asks dully, completely ignoring the never-ending criticism. 

There isn’t really a logical explanation for him crawling into bed, but he waits for an excuse anyways, because there has to be one. They haven’t so much as brushed fingers since the last drunken band pigpile.

“I could hear you thrashing and whimpering from the couch,” Michael speaks as if he is talking to a wounded animal, looking like he’s choosing his words very carefully, “And I know how physical contact used to make you feel better when you were upset, so..”

Ashton waits, not willing to fill in the blanks or make excuses for someone who’s been so self righteously cruel.

It only takes a couple seconds for Mike to realize he’s completely on his own. “So, I wanted to make you feel better. You’re all I got, man, and I still care about you.”

The eye roll is obnoxiously overdue. “Why don’t I believe you?” Ashton pretends to think for a moment, hand rubbing his chin, “Oh right, because you’ve been an emotionless asshole ever since you shot our bandmate in the fucking head.”

“How many times do I have to tell you I had no choice?”

“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t care?”

Michael slowly walks back to the bed, perching himself on the very edge. He’s silent for a couple seconds, looking like he’s trying to decide between two unsavory choices. When he speaks again, his voice is wavering and cast down into his lap. “I’m so sorry.”

His head slowly turns, and his eyes are hopeful looking. Ashton is so starved for human contact that he immediately wraps Michael in a bear hug, like the ones they used to give each other before a big show. A hand slowly moves in between their bodies to grip the fabric of Ashton’s shirt.

They’re both crying, and it’s impossible to know who breaks first, not that it matters. Time passes ridiculously slow, but eventually they are both worn out and the tears stop flowing. The pair curls up in bed, facing each other.

Something compels Ashton to lean in and kiss Mike on the forehead. It’s probably just tiredness, but the look he gets is so unmistakably adoration that it doesn’t really matter.

For a couple minutes they mutually pretend to be falling asleep, but once Ashton closes his eyes and starts to shift away, Michael kisses him for real. His entire body freezes in place, but he keeps his eyes closed.

“Kiss me back,” Michael murmurs against his lips, and the please is insinuated. 

So Ashton does, gently, going as far as wrapping his fingers in the red hair that he’s always had an appreciation for, feeling the start of a grin make its way onto his face.

He has considered what kissing Michael would feel like several times, but they’ve never actually done it. And maybe it’s just the fact that he really misses Calum, but Ashton really likes the feeling. Mikey’s got really soft lips, and he doesn’t push too far, pulling back first, smiling softly, and looking more vulnerable and happy than he has in weeks.

“I can’t believe you said you’re sorry, “ Ashton chuckles, “I haven’t heard you apologize to me in years.”

“Well, it was either that or tell you I love you.”

**********************************  
Things get so much better for them after that night.

Ashton has a weapon against the nightmares now, something to fight for when the suicidal thoughts come creeping in. Michael makes jokes about how happy he is that he doesn’t have to sleep on the uncomfortable couch anymore. When Ashton brings up that Michael had been the one to suggest he take the couch in the first place, the redhead shrugs before saying “you needed your own room more than i did.” It seems that he want to say more, but instead his lips just curl into a smile that makes Ashton’s heart skip a beat.

Sometimes they will just be hanging around, Ashton reading one of the old dusty books he found on the highest shelf of the bookcase in the bedroom while Michael watches the birds chirp, and either one of them will reach a hand across to grip the other’s. It’s a small bit of comfort, but it makes all the difference. After a few days of precariously walking on tiptoes around each other during the day and only embracing after dark, Ashton gets fed up with the games and kisses Michael’s cheek when they’re both standing on the threshold between the cabin’s yard and the fence that surrounds the property.

The look on Mikey’s face is priceless, and Ashton wishes he still had his phone so he could take a picture and tweet out to the fans that he made the gutsy Michael Clifford blush. But then he remembers they don’t have fans anymore, and half of their band is dead. 

Michael wraps his arms around Ashton’s waist, noting the change in his body language and attitude from giggly to rigid.

“How many of our fans are dead?” His voice is small, and his palms start to sweat. Michael goes to open his mouth to answer, but Ashton doesn’t let him. “I know we don’t actually have a way to know, but.. how many people are actually alive? Like that girl who almost shot you last week. Do you think she liked our music? Recognized you?”

Ashton pauses for a minute. His chest is already heaving and he feels like he might fall over, but he’s been thinking about shit like this for days, letting it boil up inside him until all of it tumbles out, a pot overflowing after it’s been ignored for too long.

“What if we’re the only ones left,” the birds outside are still chirping, cheerily oblivious, and Ashton is fuming with jealousy, “and when we die, no one is going to care, or even know? What if you go out one day and don’t come back? I can’t lose you when I just realized how much we need each other.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Michael responds persistently, “I’m always going to be here with you. We are going to survive until there’s no reason to. We may not have fans who can dedicate all their time to us anymore, but that doesn’t mean people don’t remember us.”

The answer should please him, get rid of some of the shadows that are constantly dragging him down to the depths of depression and survivor’s guilt, because at the very least Ashton will always have Michael. Instead, his nails just dig more into the skin on Michael’s arms, but luckily, the boy doesn’t say anything.

Time keeps passing, and it feels like they spend the whole day in that doorway, just holding each other. In the long run, Ashton knows this won’t last forever. Something is going to happen eventually that will end the semi-peaceful ignorance they are trying so hard to achieve. But he decides to just accept it, because he’s weak and he doesn’t care.

Forgetting would be so much easier. The memories from before, way before, when he used to cut all the time, creep up and come back ten-fold when Ashton least expects them. And even though he tries, Mikey can’t save Ashton from his thoughts. Distractions only work for so long, and a lot of the time they are double-edged swords. 

One day, when Ashton can’t get out of bed in the morning regardless of how many pleading remarks Michael throws his way, he considers finding a razor, slicing his arm a little, wearing long-sleeves around the cabin, just for old times’ sake. Michael has been trying to hide them, knowing all too well the potential havoc they could wreak, but they both know how determined Ashton can get.

Around midday, he finds one shaving razor they had collected from a corpse hidden in a cabinet closest to the bathroom. The excitement is unwarranted and sick, but he lets himself feel it anyway. Ashton hurries into the bathroom with a cloth and some highly sought after disinfectant recently found on a raid. The hair raises up on his arm as he steadies his hand, pressing the blade down on his wrist when he hears the front door slam open.

Ashton jumps ten feet in the hair, not expecting Michael for another few hours at least. The result ends up being that the cut in his arm is wider than it should be, and he dreads the reaction this is sure to get as much as the clean up itself.

Of course he isn’t able to get the cut cleaned before Michael knocks on the door, and of course knocking on the door is a mere formality, because Mikey strolls right in to the bathroom. He instantly stops dead in his tracks when his eyes lazily roll over Ashton’s arm, a perturbed look settling on his face. Ashton tries to move away but Michael quickly asserts his dominance in the situation, wrapping the smaller boy in a hug, coddling the affected arm and rubbing his back.

Minutes pass, and then Michael pulls back, still cradling Ashton’s arm like he’s scared that the pain will get worse if he lets go. Ashton doesn’t know how to tell him that the pain is just a means to an end, and doesn’t bother him nearly as much as the look on his face.

It’s extremely difficult for Ashton to breathe as Michael cleans the wound, air keeps catching in his throat as he thinks of things to say. Everything that crosses his mind is either too fucked up or casually self-deprecating, so he stays silent.

Michael starts humming as he rumbles around in the medicine cabinet for bandages, smiling victoriously when he finds one. 

The silence is beyond suffocating as Mikey finishes dressing the wounded wrist, gently letting go of Ashton after he chastely kisses him on the forehead, hand briefly brushing through the curls at the nape of the older boy’s neck.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Michael asserts, over and over, and Ashton slowly begins to feel like he can breathe again.

**********************************  
They get too comfortable in the routine, too bold, and it ends up being their downfall.

Michael reminds him the night before that they have to go on a raid the next morning, and because he’s feeling particularly invincible, the area he has scouted out has more undead than they are used to handling. Ashton panics for just a moment by the change in plans, reverting back to his own habits, but after repeated reassurances and a morning blowjob, he’s up with Michael at the ass crack of dawn. 

The amount of meticulous planning that has gone into each outing has proven to be a great advantage for them so far.. Even if Michael jokingly says that Ashton is being way too anal about something that should come naturally after all this time. 

“Three motherfuckin’ months, and you still act using your head. Sometimes you just gotta go in for the kill, you know?” Michael teases after a close call in which they lost out on a week’s worth of food because a group of zombies had been moving in on them and Ashton had rejected his clear shot at the deer in favor of running the hell away.

Three months since Ashton saw who he thought could potentially be the love of his life and his best friend shot within an hour of each other. He still wakes up screaming at night, but at least now he wasn’t afraid before going to sleep- it wasn’t as bad, anyways. Occasionally, if he thinks about what he and Michael are doing for too long, surviving when so many others had died, Ashton isn’t able to sleep at all, but Michael still holds him.

Ashton begins to believe that there was worse things to be than a survivor. 

They’ve been pretty lucky, avoiding other groups of people, because in the grand scheme of things, the unpredictability of mankind scares Ashton more than any dead body piloted by a need for flesh. Every time he starts to itch for human interaction, he reminds himself of the times he’s almost been killed by a bandit, or the one day he and Mikey came back to the cabin to see it broken into, packages thrown about. New relationships are way too messy, and he can try to be diplomatic until he’s blue in the face. Ultimately, it’s just Michael and Ashton, together.

It’s still dark outside when Ashton is woken by his ridiculously gorgeous boyfriend tapping him on the nose and singing Jesus of Suburbia as loud as his voice can handle at 4 AM. Being the little spoon has distinct disadvantages, like the fact that he can’t move because Michael’s arms are a literal cage, but he smiles anyways.

“Mikeyyyyyyy,” Ashton whines, at a pitch that makes his voice crack halfway, “Who sings that song?”

Michael gives him a weird look. “Green Day, you fucking fake-ass fan.”

“I would appreciate it if you kept it that way,” Ashton smirks at his own joke, wiggling his ass into Michael’s crotch before play-acting going back to sleep. The disgruntled growl from behind him is yet another boost to his mood.

Being the understanding and incredibly kind boyfriend he is, Michael slithers out of bed without another word after a few more minutes of cuddling, presumably going into the kitchen to make breakfast in preparation for the tumultuous day ahead. 

For a second, Ashton closes his eyes and envisions the cottage as a high-rise apartment in Sydney, with the other boys all in the same building. Back when the band first started and he and Calum were first getting together, Ashton used to dream about it all the time, using his subconscious’ desires as a goal instead of something to ignore. But instead of waking up to flashes of black hair, now he sees faded red on the pillow next to him. The fact that it’s real makes it so much better.

Calum never really stayed. He was constantly present physically, sure, but sometimes it felt like Ashton was the one pulling all the weight. There was always someone else. 

They’re in the middle of an apocalypse, but Ashton and Michael are happy. 

Before they leave, Michael insists that they both almost bathe in zombie guts, as a preventative measure, but also because he thinks raids that don’t feel like they’re about to go into battle are way too tame.

The amount of time it takes them to hike to the unnamed town on the map Mikey has been scouting for close to a week is ridiculous, and it’s not just because Ashton hasn’t done much of anything in the meantime. He tries to distract himself by observing how good Michael’s ass looks in the jeans he’s wearing, but there really isn’t any use. It’s October and New York is cold as hell frozen over, especially when deserted, so Ashton starts running zig-zags to keep warm while Michael mumbles about how they should probably focus their energy on getting through this.

Eventually, they get over the hill that leads into a small wooded area. It isn’t really a town so much as a few long, one-story buildings with trees intermingling. There’s one building in particular that Michael wants to get into, as the area was recently abandoned by a camp of survivors after getting overrun by undead, and supposedly their supply base was left untouched when they rushed out in a hurry.

The building, unsurprisingly so, is locked, but Michael has done very thorough research, knowing that there have been people before him that tried to get in as well, dying in the process. People who are now reanimated and seemingly guarding what they fought to obtain. 

There’s a ladder on the left side of the porch, dried bloody handprints all over the place, imprinted onto the last three rungs, and some destroying the cleanly painted side paneling. Ashton is disgusted by how used he is to the sight of someone else’s necessary bodily fluids. If he tries hard enough, which doesn’t really take much at all, he can still feel Luke bleeding out in his lap. 

It doesn’t take much at all because he has nightmares about it nearly every night. Each time it’s a different scenario, but it always ends the same. 

And now here he is, just a season later, watching as the only other human being he has any connection with any more climbs up, up, and out of sight. Ashton’s breath hitches in his throat and he briefly considers scrambling to meet his second half on the other side of the wall, but he knows it’s not part of the plan. Plus, he’s supposed to be on watch for any major herds, any waves that add to the already significant number of undead lurking around. The muscles in Ashton’s back tenses as one nearly brushes arms with him. 

Michael’s in and out with the supplies within a couple minutes, but that was to be expected. Getting the stuff wasn’t the hard part; getting it back was. By now the camouflage they applied is dried and won’t distract the zombies as much, which means they have to get the fuck out as fast as they possibly can. That, of course, is going to be significantly more difficult with all the shit they’re both carrying, but it’s so worth it, based on the shit-eating grin Mikey is displaying. They hug briefly, mostly because Ashton looks ecstatic. 

As planned, they separate for thirty seconds or so, darting through the small group, going in opposite directions. 

**********************************  
Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Michael knows he’s not going to get through this alone as soon as Ashton lets go of his arm, because there had only been so much blood and guts in that zombie he had killed in preparation for their camo, and he had given nearly all of it to Ash.

So when he makes it all of five feet before a zombie latches onto his ankle, Michael isn’t surprised.

The teeth don’t sink in immediately, so a bubble of hope bubbles in his chest, but then he feels the pain and knows that there isn’t anything that can be done. Neither of them have a axe on them and Michael is too vain and prideful to live his life without anything below his knee, nor would he be able to cut it off himself.

Ashton’s already made a pact with himself that he won’t shoot anyone that’s still alive and fighting, plus it’d be too much to ask.

It’s a slow and painful walk to the meeting place they’ve established, but Michael makes it, slashing through as many zombies as he can, feeling like his final sacrifice is going to be his best. Ashton has already given him so much, it’s time he returns the favor.

He lands against the tree with a low moan, choosing to ignore the buzzing bee that is Ashton’s nerves as the boy hovers, repeating “what’s wrong?” over and over, like the most heartbreaking broken record.

Eventually Michael gets out “ankle,” and they both know he doesn’t have joint problems.

They’re a safe enough distance away from the town that Michael allows himself to slide down onto the ground, splaying his legs out in front of him, choosing not to inspect the wound, knowing what’s there, what it means. Ashton looks like he’s about to pass out, but he’s turned his face away so they can’t look each other in the eyes. 

After a minute or two, Ashton turns back to him, a determined look on his face. 

“Do you still have those two handguns?”

Michael nods, feeling sick to his stomach. 

“Can I see one?”

With a quirked eyebrow, he hands the smaller of the two guns over to Ashton, who inches closer until their thighs are touching. They stare at each other for a moment, and Michael wants to plead with Ashton to get away, go back to the cabin, forget about everything that has happened in the past three months, go find another group-

“I was bit too.” Ashton says softly, and his eyes are watering a little bit, “on the shoulder.” He pulls down his shirt for a second to show the mark, but Michael won’t let his own eyes leave Ashton’s pretty hazel ones. It feels like everything is falling into place. They’re not survivors, they are placards, stand-ins for someone else. The circle of life has finally caught up to them. Two boyband members are certainly not meant to survive the zombie apocalypse, especially if they’re in love.

His mind is running a mile a minute and he feels like he can’t move, doesn’t want to, anyway, but his body betrays him, and Michael is cocking the gun before Ashton says another word. They’re so in sync, carefully attuned to the other’s emotions.

They stare at each other some more, because words are failing, and Michael can already feel some of the feeling in his toes and tips of his fingers receding. Ashton looks equally distressed, and his hand is shaking, finger on the trigger. There is no time left. Not anymore.

“On the count of three?” Michael breathes out as his left leg twitches. He was bit on the right ankle.

Ashton nods.  
“I fucking love you,” Michael utters, starting to become more at peace. Neither of them will have to suffer without the other, at least.

“I love you too, Mikey.” Ashton says, tone strong and unwavering. He puts the gun to his temple and Michael wants to cry at the sight.

Instead, he reaches across the distance and wraps his arms around Ashton’s neck, pulling him close for one last kiss. As he pulls back, Michael bites Ashton’s lip gently.

He keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to face reality again, but they both know there is no second option, so Michael puts the gun against his temple. Ashton’s hand on his cheek is the only thing that gets him to open his eyes.

“One.”

Michael goes to count but finds he can’t work his voice, so his mouth just stays slightly ajar as Ashton shakes his head and giggles a little. 

“Two.”

He’s never noticed how beautiful of a face Ashton has like he does in the few seconds he’s got before they pull the trigger, but God, Ashton is just so goddamn pretty. Michael stares in wonderment at the flawless human being in front of him, the one who has kept him going for so long.

“Three.”

They both pull the trigger. Michael watches as Ashton’s brain matter splatters all over the tree, bits of his skull crumbling from the force. It takes him a second to realize that his gun jammed, and he’s still alive.

Michael gets up on his hands and knees and gently pulls Ashton’s body so he’s resting upwards, back to the trunk of the tree. Slick with blood, one of Michael’s hands slips to Ashton’s collarbones, still partly exposed.

The skin feels smooth and unblemished.

Everything is still for a moment as a growl rips its way out of Michael’s throat. He’s pretty certain that Ashton said it was this side of his chest, but he pulls the other side of his shirt down, just in case.

Nope.

Michael panics, not used to being lying to, especially from Ashton, especially not in the past few months, especially not when this was a life-or-death situation, and Ashton had a choice, and he picked the wrong choice.

He spends too long thinking about it. Time is beyond precious and every moment he wastes being alive when Ashton is dead is one less second he has until Michael is just another dead man walking.

There’s a noise from behind that causes Michael to jolt forward, losing control of the muscle spasms that have been getting worse ever since he was bit, and he falls forward, face on Ashton’s shoulder. He goes to move an arm to push himself off the dead body of his only remaining bandmate, best friend, lover, boyfriend, and everything else in the book, but he can’t, paralyzed from the neck down. 

Fuck. A million times, fuck.

The gun is only a few meters away. If only he could move his arm, stretch it out.. Michael twitches one of his fingers, and a rush of hope surges through his body.

Everything goes black.

**********************************  
Yes, Yes, Yes!

Ashton is giddy as he makes it to their meeting place first; the large oak tree far enough away from the madness that he can finally relax. Maybe it’s a little petty, but he’s never beaten Michael to safety before, and Ashton is glad that he is saving himself for once. 

The bag of supplies he had eagerly been searching through falls to the wayside as Mikey approaches just a few minutes later, albeit he’s limping. Ashton’s mind automatically goes to the worst place possible, watching the boy collapse, unable to support himself anymore.

For a second he sees what it would be like to just leave Michael here and go back to the cabin. The air would be hard to breathe and there would be too many reminders of everything they’ve lost and no one to share the burden, no one to say i love you to. Ashton would be alone and he can’t picture it, won’t allow himself to. Without Michael, he would have no shot at anything more than mere survival.

The thing worse than being a survivor, Ashton decides, is doing it alone, and becoming emotionless, uncaring, only concerned with continuing to survive for the sake of it.

Ashton’s never been into winning just to win. He traces one finger along the scars on his wrist.

Going into overdrive, Ashton knows as soon as their eyes lock that neither of them are going to leave this spot. Their bodies are going to decay together, and it’s going to be extremely morbid but it’s so much better than the alternative. 

He lets out a whoosh of air, inhales and exhales for a minute or two while Mikey seems lost in his own world, they’re not facing each other because Ashton has to work on his poker face. He turns back, not allowing a single muscle on his face to twitch or his eyes to look anywhere other than at Mikey.

“Do you still have those two handguns?”

This isn’t right. He knows this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. He wants to make some stupid joke, something so astutely Michael that maybe the universe would fracture into a million pieces and they’d be able to go back and not separate after they got the supplies. Or maybe they could even go back to the night before this all happened, all of it. Go back to a world where Calum and Luke are still alive, and their blood isn’t on Ashton’s hands, metaphorically or literally, because he still can smell it at the randomest times..

Guns aren’t his thing. The weight of a weapon still doesn’t feel right to Ashton, even after the months he has spent constantly on edge, he still can barely handle the idea. He hasn’t lost that part of himself, at least. His drumset is long forgotten, but he still has his humanity. Not that it’s of any use now. “I was bit too,” Ashton says softly. The lie leaves a sour taste in his mouth, but he has to do this. He can’t live without Michael but Michael wouldn’t let them die together if he knew Ashton had a chance, however pathetic of a chance it is.

When he says i love you, it feels so incredibly real. They had so much potential. Ashton wants to believe that they would have figured it out eventually, in that life where the deceased stayed in the ground where they belong, but he knows better.

Their last kiss is exactly what he needed to know that this is the right decision.

It feels like his body is full of lead. The sky above them is blue like Luke’s eyes. Ashton can hear Calum sniffling. He sees his family and wants to reach out for them, but he can’t; he’s still breathing, just another empty vessel.

“One.” 

He’s alone on this counting thing, it seems. The responsibility falls over his shoulders, that he’s the one officially going to warrant their death, go in for the kill. There’s too much hair matted to his forehead by sweat and he desperately wants to brush the curls out of his eyes.

“Two.”

Ashton can’t remember what life was like before people started dying, but now he can’t fathom the idea of it being any different, can’t imagine life without Michael. So he won’t allow that to happen. He may not have been bitten, but his head is telling him otherwise.

“Three.”

He gently smiles at Mikey as he pushes his finger down.

**********************************


End file.
